Commodity

I don't want to be
your weekend lover,
or an afterthought
when you've had another
whiskey sour
sipped over rocks.
I don't want to be
your raunchy secret
posted knotch.
Oh no.
I want to be your
tattooed lady,
slip under my canvas
covered muse.
I want to lose my
senses on the fences
that crumble
at our feet.
I want to wreck
the walls of existence
that color our
imaginary boundaries
of short-lived
partitions.
I want to walk
the halls and
hear them talk
up a chatter.
I want to be
that piece of you
that scatters up
the doorstep for
another look.
I want to be
your bedside table,
daytime verbiage
storybook
living read.
I want to heed
your words
while you speak them,
and tell you
my stories in trade.
I want to feel
every fold of your hands
while time slips by
and we age.
I want to be
your backdrop,
your pedestal,
your spotlight,
your sage.
I'm past the stage
of playing games
like school kids
by locker doors.
I've long since traded
backpacks and glances
for late night talks
and super slow dances
by the kitchen table.
Pork roast and coffee,
tell me I'm lovely
with bedhead,
and sleep in my eyes,
and don't disguise
exactly what you want.
Time is a commodity
too precious to
slip by alone.
So, no, I don't
want to be your
weekend lover.
Not ever.